David Gates: A Hand Reached Down to Guide Me

“I need to stop and close my eyes for a minute,” she said. “That or we’re going to die.”

“Stark choices,” her father said. He coughed. “You sure you don’t want me to take over?”

“You said you weren’t used to standard anymore,” she said.

“That was a metaphor.” He coughed. “Don’t we laugh?”

A picnic area appeared: Could she possibly be dreaming it? But he was pointing. She parked under an evergreen, let the seatback down and closed her eyes, feeling her father to her right as a luminous presence.

She woke up to the sound of him snoring. He’d let his seatback down too; they seemed to be side by side in a space capsule. She unfolded the map as quietly as she could. By holding it right up to her face, she saw that at Putnam you could pick up this 395 and go north and then eventually you’d have to end up in, what, New Hampshire probably. The White Mountains. When he came to, she could maybe amuse and mollify him by saying they were now en route to Bretton Woods, for the world conference on what to do about their lives.

—

As they came into Worcester, her father began rolling his head back and forth on the seatback like No no no . He woke up coughing.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“Bad dream. Where are we, anyway?”

“I’m really worried about that cough, Daddy.”

“It’s being dealt with,” he said. “I’m going in for more tests next week.”

“Wait —more tests?”

“Too tedious to go into. Abigail, by the by, knows none of this. Now, where are we?”

“We’re sort of taking a detour. Daddy, how long—”

“What detour?” He touched his watch and its face lit up blue. “We should be almost—”

“I just thought this would be a better thing for us,” she said.

He looked over at her. “Kitten,” he said. “You’re not having a psychotic break?”

“I’m not?” she said. “Good to know.”

“Well,” he said. “Hmm. I’ve clearly missed some excitement. Now, we’re where again?”

“I don’t know. Worcester. I’m sorry, Daddy. We could still—”

“Good God. You know, kitten, if this was a problem for you, you might have said so. Instead of—” He stretched forth a palm at the lights of what must be Worcester. “ Now what to do. Louisa is probably—Oh well. I guess I won’t be inviting myself back there in a hurry.”

“Now I feel terrible,” Paige said. “Maybe you should call her?” She reached back to unzip her pack and felt around for her cell.

“Don’t feel terrible, kitten. Nothing’s worth that. Where’s the inside light? Now there I go again.”

—

At the front desk of the Holiday Inn, a young blonde with three rings in each earlobe gave them a very-much-not-my-business smile. Her father asked for a room with two queens and signed them in as Charles Eckhaus and Paige Eckhaus. “And where would be a good place to eat?”

“A good place to eat?” The girl put a finger to her lower lip and pretended to be puzzled. “Maybe New York?”

“Now, what if I were a secret agent from the Greater Worcester Chamber of Commerce?” he said. “Let me rephrase. Where will they not poison us?” Paige saw him give his head that little twist to the side. Once, drunk, he’d let it slip to her that he knew which was his better profile.

“You could try Hot Biscuit Slim. It’s just down—I don’t know, I think three lights? On the left? At least they don’t overcook the pasta.”

“Well,” her father said, “I must say we’ve lucked out in meeting you . And do your gifts extend beyond food criticism?”

“You might be surprised,” she said, then gave Paige such a look: eyes full-on, then dropped as if demurely. Only rarely had Paige thought about other women. But this was a fetching girl. “Enjoy your dinner,” she said.

“What on earth was that? ” her father said as Paige unlocked the passenger door.

“Every man’s fantasy, apparently,” Paige said. “She’s probably making up her own key card as we speak.”

“Ah, I doubt that. I’m old enough to be her father. Old enough to be your father.”

Hot Biscuit Slim turned out to have white tablecloths and a pink tulip on each table. The one objectionable thing was Old Glory push-pinned to the wall. That and the line on the menu about roast beef “in its own au jus.” And to be really bitchy, had one not heard enough of Kind of Blue?

The waitress set their drinks down, and her father made Paige clink her Jack Daniel’s to his martini. “Ah,” he said. “This and this alone.” He tapped a finger on the menu. “Have you made up your mind?”

“You are being double-edged,” she said. “Have you?”

“Well, one couldn’t come to Hot Biscuit Slim and not have the pasta. I wonder if they’d do just a simple olive oil and garlic. What about you, kitten?”

“Ooh,” she said. “It all just looks so good I can’t decide.” She made what felt to her like a Betty Boop mouth.

“Oh come now,” he said. “It’s not that bad. Remind me to call Abigail, will you?”

“Here.” She took out her phone. “If she star-sixty-nines you, you won’t have to explain why you’re shacked up at a Holiday Inn in Worcester.”

“You’re always thrusting that thing at me. Anyway, I doubt Abigail is that high-tech a person.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Paige said. She put the phone away and got out her makeup kit. “I have to hit the little girls’.”

“ That’s not very nice, kitten,” he said. “Hitting little girls? If you see our waitress, hit her too.”

In the toilet stall, Paige sat, peed for form’s sake, took out her speed and her pretty salt spoon. Even in here, she could still hear John Coltrane reeling off those angry coils of notes. Another of Richard’s big favorites: all these men who went on and on and on. God, this stuff took hold in a hurry—like, how could molecules get to the brain so fast? Unless they penetrated right through like rays, without bothering to take the bloodstream? So embarrassing, though. If somebody heard her snorting away in here, they’d think she was doing coke like some spoiled little Eurotwat.

Back at the table, she raised her glass to her father and took another sip. What the fuck? This wasn’t Jack Daniel’s. She vibed the waitress until she made the bitch turn and look.

—

Driving back to the Holiday Inn, she spied a liquor store and pointed.

“Great minds,” her father said. “Still open, do you think?”

“Great minds are always open,” she said. “It’s their what-do-you-call-it. Hallmark.” She actually better not get much higher. “You know, we could just drive on from here to your friend’s,” she said. “I don’t really want to, necessarily.”

“If I call her again, she’ll think I have Alzheimer’s.” He coughed. “Would you get me a pint of, I don’t know, Tanqueray? No, actually, pints are for rumdums. How about a fifth? I can’t believe I even know the term ‘pint.’ That in itself is a bad sign.” He thrust three twenties at her. “This should be enough to get us each a little something.”

She plucked one. “We’ll go Dutch,” she said. “Speaking of Alzheimer’s. Actually, you know what I love? In Variety , when they say ‘prexy’? Like, ‘So and so, Sony Pictures prexy’?” She shook her head. “Whew. And with that.”

—

Lying on their beds, each propped up with two pillows, they watched Eyes Wide Shut on the pay-movie channel. Paige sipping Jack, her father sipping gin, the plastic ice bucket on the night table between them. The beauty of the ice cubes went to her heart: each cube with a tunnel going through and about ten colors clashing around and adding up to not any color at all. The beauty of the ice bucket too, let’s contemplate that: marbleized plastic, pinks and grays swirling, done very honorably.